


your own path

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Lars Gottlieb's A+ Parenting, M/M, can you tell i hate him, newt and hermann are so fucking smitten, this is literally SUCH an off the cuff au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24017908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Hermann Gottlieb doesn't get a doctorate, as much as his father may want it. He does save the world and get the man of his dreams, though.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 3
Kudos: 54





	your own path

**Author's Note:**

> this fic brought to you by: remembering pentecost calls hermann "mr. gottlieb" while he calls newt "doctor geiszler" and then going WHAT IF and talking about said au in my tumblr messages lol

“Was meinst du?” Lars asks, his voice low, but sharp; and even now, no longer having lived under his father’s iron rule for the past five years, Hermann cringes at the tone.

“The university is suspending any and all dissertation defences for doctoral candidates for the foreseeable future, in light of the current crisis,” Hermann repeats, “really, father, I don’t think you ought to worry—they’ll open again—”

“Do not tell me _what_ I should think, Hermann,” Lars hisses. “You will go to the board and demand they allow you to defend your dissertation, do you understand me?”

“What do you care about my dissertation!?” Hermann snaps. “Just a week ago, you—”

Lars lets out a soft, warning growl. “Mind your tone, _son_ ,” he hisses. “I will _not_ have _you_ disgracing our family—even your _sister_ has a doctorate.”

Hermann’s jaw tightens. “Leave Karla _out_ of this, father,” he bites; anger rising red-hot beneath his ribs; and, for once, he wishes that they were having this conversation in person rather than over the phone, because he wishes, almost more than he ever has, to break Lars’ nose.

When he speaks, Hermann can hear the sneer in Lars’ tone. “You’re just upset that she gained my favour in this and you haven’t—”

“Shut up. Shut _up._ ” His voice shakes; and he sees red. “Don’t you _dare_ try and pit us against each other, father. She hates you just as much as I do—no, _more_ . And, for your information—I _shan’t_ . I refuse to do this. I spent all these years doing what you told me to...not anymore. If the uni decides to resume dissertation defences, then I shall _consider_ continuing, but on _my_ terms.”

“Hermann, this is _rash_ —listen to me—”

“No. No, father. I will _not_. Goodbye.”

He hangs up and shoves the phone into his pocket; ignores it when it rings once, and then, again; hand tight on the head of his cane, and stares straight ahead. Thankfully, though he’s in public, he’s in a more secluded area of the campus, and no one seems to have heard his argument.

It settles on him, after a few minutes, what he has done. Though he’s doesn’t make much of a secret that he doesn’t like his father’s intentions, he’s almost always gone along with them—and now, in a single conversation, he’s told Lars that he will _not_ be doing what he wants him to; will _not_ be getting a doctorate.

There’s something freeing about that—because, as much as he loves learning and loves his field, he’s never truly _wanted_ a doctorate for himself; merely started working on one because it was _expected_ of him. 

His lips twitch; and he allows himself to smile, just a tad bit. He’ll call Karla later, once it’s a decent time for her—she’ll be happy to know that he’s decided to do what he wants rather than what their father wants.

In the meantime...there’s a wonderful little place not far from campus, and he _is_ on his lunch break, and he really does deserve to do something nice for himself, just this once.

* * *

When Hermann sends the first letter to Newton Geiszler, he spends two weeks in a tizzy, worried that he’s been too ambitious, too forward, that Geiszler, who has four doctorates, will take a look at his name, Google him, find only a master’s to his name, and laugh for a good fifteen minutes before he shreds the letter.

To his utter shock and intense relief—and, honestly, some delight—Geiszler replies within the month.

_Hermann,_

_Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I’m working on trying to get some more samples from the kaiju—the government’s got a tight handle on them, but I think I should be able to wrangle some, but I’ve been filling out paperwork and calling people for like two weeks and I didn’t really have time to like, check my mail, so I didn’t see your letter until a few days ago._

_Anyway, about your theory...I think it could have some weight to it—you obviously know what you’re talking about, and I’ve read some of the papers you worked on, and they’re brilliant, but you’re assuming that whatever it is just STAYS open...which, given the size of the kaiju, is unlikely, because we would have picked up on it by now._

_Anyway, dude, my point is, like...write back? Please? You’re STUPID smart, honestly, and if nothing else, I need someone to talk to._

_Newtzilla_

Hermann gapes; for a moment, feeling humiliated at having his theory ripped into like this, before he reads the following line, and relaxes a bit. Geiszler isn’t trying to one-up or humiliate him—he’s merely treating Hermann like a fellow academic and pointing out the flaw in his theory. And he’s right—if the fissure through which the kaiju are appearing _does_ stay open, it would have to be very large; large enough that they would have been able to detect it.

That leaves only the alternative: that the fissure opens long enough to let a kaiju through, before it closes again, or at least _shrinks_... Hermann’s mind races; spinning down neural pathways as he follows the train of thought; and he drops the letter onto his desk, digging around for a pen and paper, and begins to try and put his ideas down onto paper.

It takes a few hours, but by the time the sun’s dipped fully below the horizon, he has something he thinks is decent enough to show Geiszler—and he _does_ intend to show him, because Geiszler, it seems, is the only one who takes his theory _seriously_. He’s approached various others about it, but they’ve either changed the subject or outright scoffed at him, even though he has enough preliminary evidence to at least warrant further investigation.

With that, he begins to draft the next letter to Geiszler—the first of what he hopes will be many, for he has read Geiszler’s papers, and the other is...well, _fascinating_ and _brilliant_ would be understating it. He truly has a passion for what he does, evident even in his writing, and it draws Hermann in.

The next day he mails the letter. Twelve days later, Geiszler’s reply arrives.

* * *

“Mister Gottlieb, you were a student at Cambridge, yes?” the Marshal asks, looking up from the paper in front of him. 

Hermann swallows thickly. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I was, ah. I was working on my dissertation when Trespasser attacked, and then in 2014 I signed on with the Jaeger Programme as a consultant and worked on the coding of the Mark I’s.”

“And now you want to work for us full-time,” the Marshal says; a statement, not a question. 

Hermann nods. “Yes, sir. I, ah, I was told that there was a division in the Research Department dedicated to the Breach... Er, I believe that, with my expertise, I would be able to help the Jaeger Programme develop a model of the Breach, which would, then, allow us to possibly begin building a predictive model for the kaiju attacks.”

The Marshal raises a brow. “You think that it’s not just at random?” he asks, and Hermann flushes.

“Well, sir, I, I don’t have all of the necessary data, but...no. No, I do not think so.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then the Marshal says, “Very well, Gottlieb. I shall consider your application. It is, of course, up to the board to make the final decision but...” he pauses. “You’ve done good work for us, Mr. Gottlieb, and I, for one, think that you would be a valued addition to the Research Division.”

Hermann ducks his head. “Sir, I...thank you for your vote of confidence, sir.”

The Marshal waves his hand, and Hermann takes the dismissal for what it is, slipping out the door.

Once he’s out and down the hall and back into his tiny office, hidden in the back of the Jaeger bay, with barely enough room for him and his computers, he pulls out his phone and opens his messages. There’s one from Newton half an hour ago, after Hermann told him about his intentions to apply to the Jaeger Programme in an official capacity.

_n: dude good luck!!!_

Hermann smiles for a moment, before he begins to type out his reply.

_h: The meeting went well, I think. The Marshal himself told me that he thinks I would be a good fit._

_n: !!!!!_

_n: dude that’s great!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_n: im crossing my fingers for u_

_h: Hah. Thank you._

_n: u should know whether or not u got in within the next week right? u can tell me in ur next letter_

_h: I could just text you..._

_n: shhhhhhhhh no_

_n: put it in writing herms_

_h: ...if you insist._

_n: i do_

_n: ugh its late………………………...i gotta get to sleep but my point still stands ok??_

_h: Yes, yes, I’ll let you know in the next letter. Now get some rest, Newton._

_n: k_

_n: gn_

_h: Goodnight. Sleep well._

* * *

Ten o’ clock; Hermann yawns widely, rubbing his eyes. He’s been working on some patches for Crimson Typhoon—the arms have been stalling in the last few trial Drifts, and, since the rest of his colleagues, sans Newton and Doctor Fellson—neither of whom have any experience coding Jaegers—, have been let go, or quit and transferred to the Coastal Wall programme instead, he’s the only one left to do the work, and it needs to get done before the next kaiju attack.

“You should take a break and eat something,” Newton says, from where he’s digging around in a kaiju sample on his own side of the lab. Fellson’s been doing something with some of the smaller samples they’ve received from the Lima shatterdome a few weeks ago. 

Hermann sighs. “I have to get this done,” he says, “we’ll be within the window of the next kaiju attack tomorrow...”

“Dude, just take a _break_ ,” Newton says. “Look, if it makes you feel better about it, I’ll go grab something from the mess hall and you can eat it at your desk, alright?”

“...fine,” Hermann says, after a few beats. “Thank you, Doctor Geiszler.”

Newton rolls his eyes. “It’s Newt, dude. Titles aren’t everything.”

Fellson, who’s begun to put his samples in the specimen fridge, right on the edge of the biology side of the lab, snorts. “‘Course you’d say that to _him_ ,” he says.

Hermann tenses. _Titles_ have been a point of contention in the lab since day one. Most of his colleagues have had doctorates, honorary or not—Hermann, and a few grad students interning with the Research Division, were basically the only ones who _didn’t_ have have a PhD, but Hermann is also the one whose work the Marshal trusted most—which, predictably, lead to animosity from day one. Newton and the late Doctor Lightcap were one of the few who defended him.

Fellson, though initially amicable with Newton, has, over time, grown to dislike him for his defence of Hermann’s work. He seems to take issue with the fact that Newton, who has six degrees, sides with Hermann rather than him. 

Hermann’s been more than happy to just ignore him—Newton, unfortunately, is _not_ about to do the same.

“There something you wanna say, buddy?” he says, shoving the kaiju sample he’s been elbow-deep in and pulls off his gloves with a snap.

Fellson rolls his eyes. “I _said_ , of course you’d comfort your boyfriend like that.”

Hermann sputters. “We are not—!” 

“Jack, dude,” Newton says, and he’s taken a few steps towards Fellson, now; and his shoulders are squared back. “You got your degree from the fucking University of South Dakota. Ignoring the fact that Hermann coded the Mark I’s and created a large portion of the model of the Breach _and_ created the kaiju predictive model, his master’s is worth _ten_ of _your_ doctorates.”

Fellson sputters, but seems to be cowed, and slinks off back to his work. “You needn’t’ve argued with him,” Hermann says.

Newton shrugs. “He shouldn’t be getting at you about it. Anyway—you want me to go get you something to eat?”

“...actually,” Hermann says, “ah. You’re right. I ought to take a break...let’s go eat something. Let me just get this wrapped up.”

Newton grins at him. “Sweet,” he says.

* * *

Various colleagues mill around them, chatting and drinking and eating hors-d’oeuvres. It’s the second anniversary party for the closure of the Breach, and the biology and mathematics departments have teamed up to host it.

It’s later on, and a large number of their colleagues have already left. Hermann spent an hour or so talking with one of Newton’s colleagues, but by now, he’s mostly burnt out, and has drifted back towards Newton’s side.

“Hey,” Newton murmurs, when there’s a break in the conversation, “you look kind of worn out. You ready to go back home?”

“That would be...good, I think,” Hermann replies.

Newton nods. “Alright,” he says, and slips his hand into Hermann’s free one. “Let’s get going, then. Bye, guys!”

They move towards the exit; steps synching up, and the Drift bond buzzes between the two of them, quiet and comforting. Thankfully, they live close to campus, and it’s a fairly warm night, so the walk back is short and Hermann’s leg isn’t bothered much more than usual.

When they get inside, Newton goes into the kitchen to put on the tea. He returns with a cup of tea for Hermann, a cup of coffee for himself, and sits down by his side. Hermann takes the cup from him and takes a sip, leaning against Newton’s side.

There’s a few beats, and then Hermann says, “They kept assuming I had a doctorate, you know.”

“Hmm?” Newton murmurs.

“Your colleagues,” Hermann clarifies. “I...” he bites the inside of his mouth; a nervous tic, and continues; “do you...care? I mean—are you... _embarrassed_ of me?”

It’s nothing they’ve ever talked about; not explicitly, anyway; they’ve skirted it, but never touched on it directly. Newton frowns. “Absolutely not,” he says, “I mean, if you wanted to finish up your degree or start a new one I would support you, but it doesn’t make a difference to me.”

Hermann sighs. “It’s just...the ones who did have partners, almost all of them were also doctors...”

Newton sits up straighter; setting his cup of coffee on the coffee table before them; slipping an arm around him. “Dude,” he says, “it doesn’t matter to me, and it doesn’t matter to any of my colleagues, either. They hear Hermann Gottlieb and they don’t give a _shit_ if there’s a PhD after it or a _Doctor_ in front of it because they hear _this is the man who programmed Jaegers and mapped the Breach and worked side by side with Stacker Pentecost himself and saved the world_.” 

His lips quirk, and he adds, “You know, if anything, they’re embarrassed they _only_ have PhDs because _you_ actually did something with your intellect—something that actually _helped_ a lot of people. Like—dude, did you know how many people were texting me before the party about whether or not they could ask you about your work on the Mark I’s? Cause, like—” he pulls his arm away from Hermann and sticks his hand in his pocket, pulling out his phone, “here, see, there’s like—”

A small smile twitches at Hermann’s lips. “Alright, I get the point,” he says. “No need to overexaggerate.”

“What are you gonna do, stop me?” Newton grins, and Hermann rolls his eyes; leans in and kisses him, fingers carding through his hair. When he pulls away, Newton lets out a soft breath. “Alright, maybe you are,” he says.

“You don’t seem to be protesting much,” Hermann notes; bemused.

Newton’s grin widens. “No complaints from me,” he says, “I get to talk about how great my husband is to my coworkers and then go home and kiss said great husband, who I love very much.”

Hermann lets out a soft laugh. “You flatter me,” he says, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
